


No Place Too Great (To Be Made Yours)

by Cuddlewumpus



Category: A Dangerous Man: Lawrence After Arabia (1990), Lawrence of Arabia (1962), Seven Pillars of Wisdom - T. E. Lawrence
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:07:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28564038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuddlewumpus/pseuds/Cuddlewumpus
Summary: It was just another raid on the Hejaz Railway...
Relationships: Faisal bin Hussein bin Ali al-Hashemi/T. E. Lawrence
Kudos: 6





	1. Prologue -- 1919

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a bit of blood and gore in later chapters. Fair warning. 
> 
> ....And I throw a LOT of little historical bits into this. I mean a lot. But that doesn't mean this is in any way historically accurate. 
> 
> And yes, I am quite wordy. Sorry, I was raised by a librarian and an attorney/professor. It's my style.

**_Rome_ **

**_17 May, 1919_ **

The world looks quite curious from many different angles. Look left or right and you see a flat plain. Look ahead and sometimes you can see the curve of the horizon in the distance. Look above and you can see the vastness of the sky.

Usually.

Right now, if the British Army officer pondering the angles of the world were to attempt to look up, all he would see is what was formerly the ceiling of what had recently been a British Hadley Page bomber. At the moment, it was the floor. Or, at least that’s how it appeared when one was trapped in cargo webbing, hanging upside down after what should have been an easy landing at an Italian airfield.

Well, it wasn’t the first time things had gone pear shaped in the last few years, the dangling man thought to himself, although it might be close to the most spectacular. Nearly nightfall, trapped inside the wreckage of what had been an airplane a few moments ago, having no idea if anyone else aboard had survived… yes, things were definitely pear shaped now.

He was just beginning to contemplate how to get out of the webbing and down when his vision whitened and a high pitched whine filled his ears, reaching a crescendo of complete and total silence. His eyes rolled backwards, his limbs loosened, and he knew no more.

**_Damascus_ **

**_18 May, 1919_ **

The telegram shook in his hand. A flimsy piece of cheap paper the size of a postcard, not much to look at. Stamped across that cheap paper, however, were words that destroyed the fragile peace of mind of the one who held it. Not a long message, the sender had been brief, hoping to convey a great deal in as few words as possible:

**AIRCRAFT CARRYING T.E.L. CRASHED ROME ON ROUTE TO CAIRO STOP. FIVE ONBOARD ONLY THREE SURVIVORS. STOP. IDENTITIES UNKNOWN. STOP. WILL ADVISE WHEN MORE INFORMATION VERIFIED. STOP. R. STORRS. ENDS.**

Twenty two words to shake the world as Feisal ibn Hussein knew it. _T.E.L_ : Thomas Edward Lawrence; his comrade in arms, his friend, his best and most beloved companion had been pulled out of the sky by some unseen hand and dashed upon the Earth, his final fate as yet unknown.

Feisal knew he should be grateful to know anything about this at all. The English were not known for sharing information unless it suited them, but he recalled that Sir Ronald Storrs was a good friend of Lawrence’s, and had probably thought that Lawrence would want Feisal to know what had happened, even if Storrs probably had no idea of the true closeness of the relationship between the two men.

The wind picked up and ripped the telegram out of his hands, setting it upon the breeze. It floated and twisted until it landed at the nearby feet of another man, who had been watching Feisal as he had read the message once, twice, a third time, each time hoping to have missed some errant word, some message other than what the twenty two words conveyed.

Abdullah picked up the thin slip of paper, but did not read it at first. His eyes were on his brother, who stood silently, making no move to retrieve the paper or to do anything at all, in fact. He just stood there as though made of stone. Abdullah spared a glance at the page, mentally working out the translation in his head; his English wasn’t as good as his brother’s, but eventually he worked it out.

 _‘Allah be merciful‘_ , he thought. He heard the sound of crunching sand and looked up to see Feisal walking away, head low, in the direction of the former Governor‘s Palace. Towards the place where they had first had their headquarters when they had taken Damascus the year before. When Lawrence had still been with them.

Abdullah let him walk away. If the worst came to pass and Lawrence was already in Paradise (Abdullah didn’t think that Allah would deny the Englishman that) then he’d come and find Feisal. Until then, best to leave him be.

Atop the Governor’s Palace, Feisal sat in silence on the edge of the rooftop garden terrace. His mind was full of memories of Lawrence; hot days spent in the desert amidst great tents, planning attacks against the Turkish railways, of evenings filled with gentle conversation over every variety of subject as amused them, and of cool nights spent in each other’s arms…

Behind him, wordlessly, his towering bodyguard-servant Hejris set down a tray which held sweetened tea in a silver rimmed cup. As he turned to disappear back into the shadows, Feisal looked up.

“No. Stay, please.”

Hejris bowed, and came to stand a few feet from his lord.

Feisal took the tea and drank; a small sip only. Setting the cup aside, he spoke. “I suppose you’ve heard?” Hejris nodded. “Well, what do you think, old friend? Do you think him truly gone from us?”

“No,” he said simply.

“I wish I had your… confidence,” he finished. “I do not think to ask Allah for so many favors as I have these last few years. I fear Aurens has tested His patience too often to be spared this time.”

To Feisal’s amazement, Hejris smiled, biting back a laugh, bright white teeth gleaming in the midday sun. He looked at him with an odd sort of disbelief, as if the man were mad. “You find humor in this?”

Hejris gently shook his head. “Not humor, my lord. Just that… you have thought this way before, and Aurens has survived. Always. Even when he himself did not expect to.”

Feisal thought for a moment, trying to recall when Lawrence would have anticipated his own death. Then he remembered. “The raid,” he said simply. There was no need to qualify which raid he spoke of, Hejris would remember. Not many would even know, as they had rarely spoken of the specific incident afterward, but Hejris too had stood vigil that bleak night, waiting for a sign from Allah as to his will as regarded the fate of the Englishman, much as they did again now.

It was the memory of those days that pushed into the forefront of his mind now. The terror he had felt, of the certainty that he would lose Lawrence then, too. Oh, how close he had come to that loss! Feisal shuddered at the memory of his own obstinacy and the part he had played, how his own arrogance had nearly cost him that which was closest to his heart.


	2. Arabia, 1917  -- The Fortress

**Arabia**

**1917**

Sometimes, the mornings were the worst.

Some men could languish in bed, swaddled in sheets and coverlets, taking in the lingering scent of their lover recently gone. Or experience the greater joy of awakening with that same lover still beside them, draped one across the other, a tangle of limbs beneath silk, sometimes inviting or encouraging a continuation of the previous night’s activities, or holding the promise of new ones.

Feisal ibn Hussein was not one of those men this morning. He awoke in the pre-dawn hours to a bed already grown cold, any lingering trace of his companion dissipated in the early air. Instead, the smells of the city greeted him. The combination of unwashed masses of humanity, animals and the nearby markets assailed him, driving him near to nausea.

It was his habit to escape to the rooftops in the hour or so before dawn, where the breeze was cool and clean, but he had to forgo that pleasure today. Instead, he dressed quickly and quietly, not wishing to wake his servants and retainers, for what he meant to do was best accomplished early and alone.

“No. Absolutely not.” The voice, in heavily accented Arabic, sounded flabbergasted.

Feisal looked down at Lawrence. The look on his face would, at any other time, have been something Feisal would have called endearing annoyance, but right now, it was very tightly veiled incredulity, bordering on exasperation at what he had just been asked.

‘ _I should like to go with you on the next railway expedition.’_ Feisal had said, shortly after arriving in the rooms used by Lawrence and the others a kind of command center for the attacks against the Hejaz Railway.

Lawrence’s reaction, as Feisal had anticipated, had been quite negative.

He’d been ready for this, had prepared a response. “You have led a number of successful attacks on the rail lines. You strike and disappear, leaving the Turks to ‘scratch their heads’? I should like to see this for myself. Why should I not? ”

“Because there’s no reason for you needlessly put yourself in danger, that’s why not!” Lawrence was clearly agitated by the mere thought. He flittered around the room like a moth passing from flame to flame, never stopping for more than a second before beginning to move again. “It isn’t as though you have anything to prove to anyone, Feisal. No man can call you a coward. You’ve seen combat. You fought the Turks at Medina. Before I ever even left my dark little map room in Cairo you were risking your life to begin this revolt.”

The slightly built Englishman shook his head. “It’s far too dangerous, Your Highness. A thousand different things can go wrong out there, and often do! It would be irresponsible of me to allow it.” Lawrence rubbed his face with both hands, a tiredness creeping in, even in the early hours of the day. He shook his head again. “No, it’s not a good idea. It’s too dangerous.”

Feisal stepped closer, cupping a hand against Lawrence’s cheek before dropping it and letting it come to rest on his shoulder. He was not a prince, not right now. He switched to English. “How much did you sleep last night?”

The shift in conversation startled Lawrence out of his tiredness, as it was meant to. “Enough.” Feisal responded with a look that conveyed just how true he thought that was. “Oh, all right. I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been here since just past two o‘clock.”

Feisal laughed slightly. Looking around the room, he saw the effects of Lawrence’s inability to sleep. Normally kept neat and tidy while Lawrence was away, the command center was now a whirlwind of scattered papers, maps, photographs and equipment. Feisal had heard it once said that Lawrence was the most untidy officer in the British Army, and he didn’t doubt it.

There were spools of electric cable stacked in various places throughout the room, several of the exploders were stacked haphazardly against other various parts and pieces; all the physical elements of the sabotage work crammed together. It meant that Lawrence had been busy planning and preparing for the next expedition. The very one which Feisal wanted very much to join.

He made a decision.

“Come with me,” Feisal said, the hand on the shoulder becoming more of a gentle grip, and pulled Lawrence out of the room and into the outer corridor, saying nothing as he steered the shorter man into one of the courtyards near the center of the building.

They finally settled down on a carved marble bench in the corner of the open space, torches lit in holders along the wall for pre-dawn light. Lawrence was strangely silent, his fingers tracing the carvings along the edge of the bench, but his eyes were blank. Eventually, he looked up, meeting Feisal’s gaze.

“Feisal, what’s driving this? Why do you insist on coming with us? What I do is dangerous. It’s no work for princes.”

Feisal took a deep breath and released it. “How can I be asked to lead an army when I have no practical experience?” There, he had said it. “I studied war, yes, and trained with the Turks in Constantinople, but I have never seen real combat. Medina was a disaster and we both know that.” Feisal sighed. “You lead from the front .You are among the men day and night and they know you are one of them and the tribes love you for it. I love you for it. You are the heart of the revolt. Me? I am, as you said, a prince. Apart from them. How can I lead them from such a distance? How can I not be willing to do what you do, if as you said, I began this revolt?”

Lawrence was silent, deep in though. Feisal was about to speak, to break the spell when Lawrence shot up and began pacing across the polished stone tilework. He eventually came to a stop in front of a nearby sort of table carved into the wall, keeping his back to Feisal.

"You just said that I'm the heart of the revolt. Well, you're wrong.”

His voice deepened, and nearly cracked. “ _You are_.” 

Feisal’s protest to the contrary died on his lips as Lawrence continued. 

“Your brothers -- Ali, Abdullah, Zeid -- if they die, the Revolt will go on. When I die, the Revolt will go on. But you? You're the one holding it all together. The tribes respect you, they fight in your name. Take away Feisal of Mecca, and what do we have? Nothing.”

Lawrence sagged forward tiredly against the table in front of him. He was silent for several seconds, but it felt like an eternity. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly.

“So do me a favor and keep your bloody head down out there, will you?”

He turned to face Feisal, his eyes showing an edge of fear he was obviously trying to keep at bay.

“I’m not sure the Revolt -- or I -- could survive losing you.”

The journey took four days by camel train. It could, and sometimes did, only take a day and a night of hard riding. However, the presence of Feisal and the general good feelings among the men made it a leisurely trip to the deep desert fortress from which the raiders attacked the Turks.

Feisal, despite his status, has insisted on traveling with only what was deemed necessary. He brought only his servant Salim and – at Lawrence’s insistence -- his servant-bodyguard, the giant Hejris. Still, even in such reduced company, the men were enlivened by the presence of the Meccan prince, and appeared all the more joyful for it. Even the scowling old Auda Abu Tayi seemed happy.

Along the way, Feisal traveled in the company of the various tribal leaders, or more often, with Lawrence. The two would converse for hours about random things; the plants, animals life -- when it was seen -- even the composition of the rare stone structures seen on the route. There was little about the land through which they traveled that Lawrence didn’t seem to know about.

When camp was made on the first night, the tribes outdid themselves on hospitality. Although the party considered of only around a hundred men, it seemed many more in the evening. After the meals were served, coffee drunk, and more conversations had amongst them in general relaxation, the men retired to the tents. All except Feisal and Lawrence, who stayed awake long into the night after the tent flaps had been closed and tied.

The same pattern of travel followed more or less the next day, and the day after. In the early afternoon of the third day, Lawrence began describing the fortress camp to Feisal, and made several mentions of nearby structures that had changed over the course of passing centuries.

“Had you been here before, then?”

Lawrence nodded. “Before the war? Yes. Back when I was a student at Oxford, I studied the architecture of the Crusades. The French, to be specific. Our fortress was the wrong era and culture for my thesis, but it was enjoyable to explore.”

Feisal laughed. “So, this is the true secret of your success then? You know this desert well already.”

“No, actually. My area of specialization is in Syria, north of Damascus. Giblet, Enfeh, Markab. Those are the castles I studied. My old friends.” He smiled impishly. “When we have Damascus, I shall take you to see them.”

Feisal shared the grin. “I will hold you to that.”

The discussion of Lawrence’s studies had led to further discussions on archaeology and of Lawrence’s life before the war, digging at Carchemish in Syria. As Lawrence explained the concept of stratigraphy and the usefulness of field notations, the use of shovel versus chisel, he became more and more animated, his hands waving wildly in demonstration. So deep into his explanation was he that he failed to notice he had begun to lean dangerously to the left, towards Feisal -- and the ground. It was only made apparent when Feisal reached out a hand to steady the Englishman before he could completely fall from the saddle.

As he straightened himself, Lawrence’s face was reddened with embarrassment, and Feisal gave him an amused grin. Around them, the various chiefs and sheiks grinned and laughed as well, being used to Lawrence’s youthful antics. Soon, Lawrence was laughing along with them.

They arrived at the fortress just before sunset on the fourth day. Torches were lit and after the riders had settled their camels, men began unloading the supplies from the animal’s backs, hauling them away to various parts of the fortress compound. Feisal attempted to join them, but was waved off by Auda. “It is beneath you, My Lord.”

Feisal looked out over the camel train, spying Lawrence unloading one of the animals himself and directing the unloading of several more. “Lawrence --”

“Aurens handles the explosives, My Lord. The men do not call him ‘Emir Dynamite’ for nothing. He trusts few but himself with that task.”

When the explosives had been unloaded and stored away, Lawrence returned to Feisal’s side and offered to conduct him on the ‘tuppence tour’ of the fortress. Within the dark stone walls, the area -- which Lawrence called an ‘inner ward’ -- was quite large, one of the largest ancient fortresses in the area, as far as Lawrence knew. It also had the only natural spring until Azraq to the north, which was also one of the places they held against the Turks.

The walls of the fortress were thick, and three of the four were still standing intact. The fourth had come down at some point but not completely, the rubble would make any approach difficult. There were storerooms and billets in rooms within the walls, but most of the men chose to stay in their tents. A ruined building of some size lay near the center, its walls having fallen in on themselves, and none of the men camped near it.

There was a small motor pool at one end of the enclosure, consisting of several of the Egyptian Expeditionary Force’s armored Rolls-Royces. There were currently no English soldiers to drive them; those men were with Colonel Stewart Newcombe on the railways, Lawrence explained, but a number of the desert fighters knew how to drive the cars and frequently did.

After availing himself of a lit torch from one of the walls, Lawrence showed Feisal the towers. Of the original four, only two still stood. One to the south was used as a general meeting place and, if needed, an infirmary. It also held the spring and cisterns. The second, on the north-eastern end, was where Lawrence had his own office and quarters. The office took up most of the first floor of the structure, and a spiral staircase hidden in an alcove led to the floor above where Lawrence slept.

The rooms had high ceilings, the vaulted arches making it look almost religious in nature. Feisal commented on such, and was surprised when Lawrence told him that not only was the architecture intentional, but that the tower had once been used as a chapel.

Standing by one of the arrow slits that served as windows, Lawrence pointed towards the ruins in the center of the courtyard. “And that, believe it or not, used to be a mosque.”

“You’re not serious.”

Lawrence nodded, a slight smile forming on his lips. “It was. The locals say that something unspeakable happened within its walls, and Allah smote the building and all inside. As a result, no one will go near it.”

Feisal contemplated the building. It could easily have been a small mosque. “So, what do you think happened to it, really?”

Lawrence took a breath and puffed his cheeks out, exhaling before answering. “I don’t know, actually. If I had to guess, I’d say an earthquake. Probably the same one that took down part of the wall and the two towers.”

“An answer you don’t have? Whatever would my brothers think?” Feisal teased.

“Hopefully, not too badly of me.”

The ‘brief’ tour lasted well into the dark of the night and with some slight embarrassment at the time, Lawrence guided Feisal back to where his great tent had been set up by the men, a short distance from the southern tower. The evening meal had been ready for some time, waiting only on Feisal and Lawrence’s presence. It had been a long day, so a quick meal and short conversation followed, before all bid a good night and went to their respective beds to sleep.

Feisal awoke before dawn the next morning, to the sounds of the fortress. Men were preparing coffee, cooking food, and doing the domestic tasks that the day required. The noise was comforting, unlike the similar sounds of the city he had left behind. Out here, in the desert, among the men fighting for their freedom, he didn’t mind it at all.

As he was being served his own breakfast by Salim, Lawrence entered the tent. He was, as usual, still half asleep as Feisal bid him sit and join him for coffee, which was served in a silver rimmed cup. Apparently silver coffee cups were Salim’s idea of essential travel items. Feisal didn’t have the heart to chastise the old man for it.

As Lawrence drank, he went over his plans with Feisal.

“We should leave before dawn tomorrow. There’s a railroad junction a few miles north of here where we destroyed a section of the track last month, but the Turks have repaired it already. This time, we’ll hit the curve in the lines.”

“Why the curves?” Feisal knew very little about why particular targets were chosen, and was interested in knowing the details of the ‘wrecking crews’, as Lawrence referred to them.

Lawrence took another cup of coffee from Salim, sipping before answering. “They have to be individually bent to fit the lines, unlike the straight-aways. Takes weeks to repair instead of days.”

Feisal nodded. “And the rail line is being used again?”

“Yes. Supply transport for certain, but troops are only a matter of time.” He emptied the cup. “Better destroy it now than wait for a new garrison to arrive at the station and threaten our position here.”

By the end of breakfast, the plans for the following day had been set. In the meantime however, there were certain bits of housekeeping that needed to be done. With the British Army supplying them with the bulk of their explosives, Lawrence needed an accurate count of what they were using. Since his raiders weren’t the only ones who used the fortress as a forward base, there had never been proper records kept and it was up to Lawrence to do so now. His self-appointed task of the morning was the counting of detonators, electrical cable and quantities of the explosives he and the others used on the rail lines.

“Would you care for my assistance?” Feisal was finishing his own coffee as Lawrence prepared to leave.

“I wouldn’t mind the company, but you’ll not be going anywhere near the explosives. Other than that, certainly.”

In the end, Feisal did help count the explosives, just not the gun cotton. Gun cotton, or nitrocellulose, was a highly unstable explosive that did not react well to heat or jarring, which was why the British Army no longer used it and had ‘generously’ given a large amount of it to the Arab irregulars. At first it hadn’t been an issue, Major Garland and Lawrence and Newcombe knowing how to handle it. But as the movement grew larger, and the raids more widespread, the volatile explosive had begun to be a liability. It was now only used in short-distance raids, and only by the British officers themselves.

Instead, what was normally used was gelignite, a more powerful and more stable explosive. Lawrence had gone to Newcombe, and he to and General Allenby, to get supplies of the newer explosive, and they had recently begun receiving it. This Feisal helped count blocks of, along with lengths of electrical cable. As they counted, Feisal became aware than Lawrence was -- singing? -- as they worked. It wasn’t Arabic, and it wasn’t English, although it sounded similar.

“Are you… singing?”

Lawrence turned slightly pink. “I do that sometimes. Makes the work go more quickly.”

“That was a happy little tune. It seems familiar.”

“It’s the ‘Choral’ from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. The ‘Ode to Joy’.” Lawrence smiled, took a deep breath, and sang.

_“Deine Zauber binden wieder,_

_Was die Mode streng geteilt,_

_Alle Menschen werden Brüder,_

_Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.”_

His voice, low and clear, rang throughout the rooms in the wall of the fortress. Feisal smiled and clapped happily. “Now, dear friend, what did that mean? You know I don’t speak a word of German.”

“’Thy enchantments bind together what did custom stern divide, every man becomes a brother where thy gentle wings abide.’” Lawrence translated without hesitating.

“A beautiful sentiment.”

The last thing to count were the detonators. They were in wooden boxes almost haphazardly, and Lawrence took them all out and laid them out on the table to count and sort. As they did so, he made notes in a small red leather notebook. He had recorded the amounts of the explosives and cables, too, and the book would serve as a sort of ‘quartermaster’s record’, he said.

Once the counting was done and recorded, Lawrence began pulling down supplies that would be needed for the raid the following day, noting what he took in the notebook. Feisal took the opportunity to ask about the operations on the railways, specifically the targeting of the locomotives themselves.

“…and you destroy them when you can because of the difficulty to replace them?”

Lawrence nodded as he shoved -- _shoved!_ \-- a handful of detonators in a pocket of his thawb. "They aren’t just difficult to replace. Right now, it’s nearly impossible. The best rolling stock the Turkish Army has here in Arabia are from Germany or the United States. Germany can’t afford to give or sell them any, and the Americans won’t. Which is a good thing -- the really tough ones come from their state of Maryland, on the Atlantic coast. Those are rather hard to destroy first time."

"What do you do if they aren’t destroyed?"

Lawrence, his hands still holding several detonators, gesticulated wildly as he spoke of placing extra explosives under the boilers and coal cars of not quite wrecked engines, and of the spectacular explosions they made. How the ground shook for miles when it was done properly, the boilers still being under pressure adding to the magnitude of the blast.

After dealing with the explosives, Feisal and Lawrence shared a small meal and went their separate ways for the rest of the day. Feisal held court amongst the tribal leaders, while Lawrence made preparations for the following day’s activities. He chose the number of men who would go along, who would drive the two armored cars that would accompany them, who would work with him on the demolitions. All decisions that had to be made well in advance and then double checked to provide that no offence was given or no preference towards one tribe or the other shown. Everyone was anxious to show their prowess in the presence of a descendant of the Prophet. In the end, he chose just under a hundred men, from those who had already been at the fortress and from those who had returned with him.

Dinner was a lively affair after the shortened session of the previous night. The great platters of food were served and everyone partook happily. Conversation flowed, with Auda Abu Tayi telling, once again, the story of how a copy of the Quran had saved his life. Lawrence and Feisal had both lost count of how many times they had heard that story. It was followed by other stories, some from Auda, and some from the other chiefs. Lawrence himself was persuaded to tell a story from his childhood in England, an amusing tale that involved two of his brothers and the rooftops of Oxford.

As the night wound down and the chiefs began to take their leave, Feisal looked towards Lawrence, seated amongst a nest of pillows. His head was resting on his hand, and his fingers drifting in the air as if he were conducting a silent symphony, his long sleeves falling back towards his elbows, leaving the expanse of pale skin exposed.

Feisal swept up his own robes as he abruptly stood, addressing the company. “I regret it is getting late and we have much to do in the morning…. and Aurens and I must still discuss the final arrangements for tomorrow. So, I bid you all a good night.” He looked down at Lawrence, who pulled himself up from the pillows and followed Feisal out of the tent after his own brief goodbyes.

As they crossed the inner ward towards the northern tower, and Lawrence’s quarters, the Englishman finally spoke. “Feisal, we finished those plans hours ago…”

“Yes, we did.”

“Then what…”

“I have other plans tonight, if you are amenable.” The husky tone his voice took made it quite clear what his plans were, and the resulting look in Lawrence’s eyes showed he was definitely amenable.

The northern tower was deserted except for the two of them. Lawrence swung open the heavy stone door with ease, the hinges moving silently on palm oil. After they entered, he swung the door back and barred it with a heavy wooden crossbeam. Feisal gave him an upturned eyebrow at the gesture. Lawrence simply shrugged.

The second floor was several large rooms divided by great stone archways. Lawrence had taken the centermost area as his quarters, and they were Spartan by most standards. A low table with a lamp and a stack of books, a small washbasin in a corner, and a few blankets thrown down along the wall that served as a bed.

However, there were a few new additions, brought by Salim during dinner. Among them, a few thick pillows -- again, that man and his idea of ‘essentials’-- and a small basket placed nearest to the lit lamp on the table.

Feisal turned from his examination of the room. Lawrence stood a few feet away, a slight smile turning his lips upwards. “My Lord wished to discuss… other plans?”

Feisal stepped closer, reaching a hand out to cup Lawrence’s cheek. “Yes,” he said softly, “I most certainly did.” He ran his thumb across the other man’s cheekbone, caressing the soft skin. When he pulled back his hand, Feisal could swear he heard a small whimper. He took Lawrence by the hand and guided him towards the large pillows, grabbing the small basket from the table as he passed.

The dates were from Mecca. Large, dark, fleshy things in glass jars, packed in sweet syrup. The syrup ran thickly down the fruit as he held it. One fruit bigger than most. This one he held between his own thumb and forefinger, studying it. As he held it, bright eyes watched, anticipation held in the sky blue orbs.

Feisal rolled the fruit between his fingers, splitting it open. He deftly pulled out the pit and cast it aside. He looked over at Lawrence, who watched in silence. Feisal reached out the hand with the fruit, not to the hand of the other man, but towards his lips, which turned upwards into a shy smile.

The fruit grazed his lips before they fully opened, resulting in a small drop of syrup rolling down Lawrence’s chin. He bit at the fruit tentatively, just a small nibble at first. The taste was amazing -- he’d eaten dates before, of course, but none like this, and never _like_ this. The sweet, drier outer flesh of the fruit gave way to a thick, grainy inner fruit whose taste was like sweetened nuts. The nibbles continued until the fruit had been consumed.

Feisal, already seated next to him, moved even closer to Lawrence. His face was a mere inch away and he leaned forward, bringing his lips to the base of the Englishman’s chin, and before he could react had licked away the errant syrup, following it with a trail of gentle kisses up the jaw line.

Lawrence both blushed and shivered with the attention. As Feisal kissed his way up, Lawrence reached out a hand and ran it though the prince’s dark hair, pulling him closer as he did so. As Feisal reached his earlobe, he whispered into his lover’s ear. Lawrence smiled broadly in response, and as Feisal lifted his head, Lawrence captured his lips with a kiss of his own _._

The kisses began gently, exploring, but quickly became more passionate as mouths and then tongues eagerly sought one another. Hands ran though hair, dark against light, and then began to move down, Feisal’s finding the buttons of Lawrence’s thawb and deftly popping them. Soon the thawb was open from neck to waist.

Lawrence drew back from the kisses and began to shrug out of the thawb. Feisal leaned back, content for the moment to watch as the garment came off over his lover’s shoulders, revealing the pale skin beneath. Feisal could feel himself grow hard in anticipation. He began to undo the fastening of his own robes, revealing himself just as Lawrence had. Soon, they were both undressed.

Feisal reached into the basket and withdrew a glass vial, still warm from the lamp. As he opened it, a heady floral scent filled the air, the sweet smell of jasmine. He poured a small amount of the oil into his palms and began to rub himself with it, slicking his own hardness. He reached towards Lawrence and began to do the same, stroking and caressing. He could feel Lawrence’s muscles tighten at the sensation, saw his back arch with pleasure, and it brought a smile to his lips.

He gently pushed Lawrence onto his back amongst the nest of pillows. He continued to stroke him, feeling all of him. He lay down beside him, and soon they were facing one another, and Feisal’s hand on himself was replaced by another. The feeling of his lover’s hand was exhilarating. Every nerve ending was on fire, every sensation increased a thousand times. His heart racing with pleasure, he arched forward until their two bodies touched, the hands fell away, and they began to glide against one another.

Soon, Feisal knew they wouldn’t last much longer. He took the vial again into his hands and poured a larger amount onto his fingers. With a look, Lawrence rolled onto his back and parted his legs, allowing Feisal to bring his oil slicked fingers to their goal. Gently, first with one finger, then two, he slowly stretched open the muscles. Lawrence began to push against the fingers, thrusting them deeper, and Feisal knew he was ready.

Another generous amount of oil. Feisal brought Lawrence’s leg over his shoulder, and pressed himself against the waiting entrance. When Lawrence nodded his assent, Feisal slowly pushed forward until he was completely enveloped. For a moment, he just stayed there, reveling in the tight heat of his lover’s body. Then he slowly began thrusting, finding a rhythm. After a moment he felt Lawrence thrusting back against him, pushing him deeper, and could hear the little gasps of pleasure from the other every time their bodies met.

Feisal ran his hands down his lover’s chest as they continued to meet each other’s movements. He took a nipple in between his fingers, feeling it harden. He leaned down, capturing his lover’s mouth in a deep kiss, and then stretched back up, taking Lawrence’s hand and guiding it back towards his own hardened shaft.

As Feisal picked up speed, he felt Lawrence begin to buck beneath him. His hand joined Lawrence’s as the younger man neared his climax. Feisal could feel the muscles around him tighten, almost painfully, and a moment later a thick wet heat covered them both as Lawrence gasped aloud.

The feeling of Lawrence’s release pushed Feisal to his own, and with a low growl, he too spent himself. He leaned down once more, capturing Lawrence’s lips in a deep kiss as he withdrew.

They lay there for a moment, caught in the emotions of their tryst. Then Feisal stood up, stretching naked in the lamplight, before walking towards the washbasin, where Salim had also thoughtfully put now-lukewarm water and several cloths. Bringing them back with him, they proceeded to clean themselves and each other.

They both redressed, and after a short while, Lawrence accompanied Feisal downstairs, lifting the wooden crossbeam and pulling open the door. Feisal squeezed his hand briefly and disappeared into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story comes from a poem: 
> 
> I've talked with councellors and lords  
> Whose words were as no blunted swords,  
> Watched two Emperors and five kings  
> And three who had men's worshippings,  
> Ridden with horsemen of the East  
> And sat with scholars at their feast.  
> Known some the masters of their hours  
> Some to whom years were as pressed flowers:  
> Still, as I go this thought endures  
> No place too great to be made yours. 
> 
> It was written by William George Lawrence, one of T.E. Lawrence's younger brothers, while staying with him at Carchemish in 1914.


End file.
